Drawing Water
by fascimility
Summary: Kenshin finds Hiko, after long years and longer roads pass between them.


Disclaimer: I don't own them.

Notes: 90 minutes on the dot. Wasted loads of time on pointless bits like the beginning which I deleted anyway. Of Kenshin's time living with Hiko. I have this sudden realisation that it may seem like Hiko/Kenshin, but it's not meant to be taken that way. For tm's chellenge: Background Story

**_Drawing Water _**

The air is dry, and his feet raise the dust with every step till there are clouds of it that linger at his feet, swirling and spinning. His sandals are coated with a layer of coarse brown dust and between his toes he can feel the fine grains as the make their way through the fabric.

He makes the journey home.

Not the home in which he smiles to the radiant sun with the wind in his face and laundry in hands; not the home where a boy's cries accompany the staccato of a lady's shouts; not the home he salvaged from the wrecks of a wandering life.

It was his first real home. The place where he left everything behind and got more than everything back, and grasped with virgin white hands the hilt of a sword.

The path branches and he takes the one on the left. It is the shadier one, and the one whose end is shrouded in shadows and trees that promise a respite from the burning heat of the cracked road.

He remembers the stove where he first learned to cook, and how it seems as though the heat of the fire still warms his hands, and the whisper of smouldering wood still brushes past his ears in a stream of heated smoke. He has a gift for cooking, but he supposes anyone faced with the prospect of consuming the fruits of their labour acquires the skill with surprising alacrity.

Even now he still can imagine the feel of the beaten earth beneath his head, and the emptiness of lying side awake at night with only the pitch darkness and clear coolness as solemn company.

The afternoon sun has subsided and hangs lower than it did before, and vaguely he wonders how long it was that he has crossed the familiar path, and felt the leafy caress of the trees against his cheek and the cool carpet of undergrowth beneath his feet.

He remembers his master, Hiko. He can see the ever present cloak of white swirling around lanky frame, and the graceful, swift movements before the final blow comes. Training under Hiko was not easy.

He recalls the feel of falling into the water at an awkward angle; the way the deceptively calm appearance belied undercurrents that pulled and choked with the force of stone.

Tender bruises that were shaded delicately green before transforming to bluish black in a matter of days, cuts from careless brushes with the blade of a sword, a deadly lassitude that drained him of energy until his feet folded beneath him and he keeled over in a crumpled heap. Yes, he remembered those.

He has come to the end of the road. The journey up the mountain has not been easy; his worn expression and the way every crease and fold of his clothes is grimy with dirt is a testimony to that. In a clearing beyond he can see his master's house, half hidden in the cluster of trees that screen it from prying eyes.

He stops and hesitates, unsure of whether to continue. He is not ready, and he knows that. Hiko is sure to be home; recently he's heard that Hiko has become a potter, and at that time he had been pleasantly surprised, who knew that someone who was most possibly the most skilled swordsman of that era would turn right around and waste his talent in ceramics?

From afar the rhythmic crash of water against stone reaches his ears faintly. It is not audible, but years of training and silence have honed his ears to the zenith of perfection. And that brings his mind back to the waterfall.

The raw beauty and savagery of untamed currents pounding and rushing drew him towards it, and every time he approached it its swirling vortex beckoned to him out of its watery depths.

When he first followed Hiko home he was a guest. His body was still limp from the wounds and his mind still fresh from the scars. The first thing Hiko did for him was to bring water and wash him, gently bathing the cuts with hands so warm and comforting that Kenshin fell asleep in his grasp. But vivid in his mind was the image of the blood streaming away from his wounds in thin weak ribbons, and the cool, lapping feeling of water against his skin as it stained crimson.

The next day he was still weak from exhaustion and shock. When Hiko gave him sake to regain his strength and warm him he almost spat the bitter liquid out. After, he remembered gulping down cups and cups of water to douse the fire in his throat. The burning still remained, but at least it hurt less.

When he awoke the next morning he was running a high fever and he was flushed with the exertion of not crying out loud every time he moved. The entire day he was swathed with cloth and bundled up, unable to speak above a dry croaking whisper.

His bathing water was hot that day. It was an extravagance on Hiko's part, perhaps which was why it had stuck in his mind for all these years, since Hiko never spent more than necessary with the exception of sake. The fire was kindled, and the water in the pot began to boil. The frothy bubbles began to form and he watched from the corner, vision blurred, as it bubbled over and the fire began to splutter.

He tried to cry out, his throat protested in a violent hacking burst. He kept quiet after that, staring blankly at the wine red flames leaping out form under the pot as they struggled to escape. There was nothing he could do, and the water kept flowing, flowing and flowing… just like scarlet blood that pooled on the floor in never ending streams.

When Hiko returned he doused the fire, and wondered why Kenshin's eyes were glassy and unseeing, brimming with hot tears. Kenshin remembered nothing much more after that, just water bubbling, water flowing, and water splashing.

As the days progressively passed and his wounds healed, he learned to hold a sword. He started shakily at first, the strokes weak and unsure, but as time passed it the sword became an extension of his strength and skill. He was getting better, and it became evident to his eyes the quality which Hiko had seen in him the first time he set eyes on him.

It was almost well into his second year that Hiko asked him to draw water from the waterfall. 

He never understood the significance nor the meaning—he had never been good at reading his master—but the expression of the usually impassive face held a feeling he could not place.

It had been nearing dusk when he set out. Dinner had to be made and clothes had to be washed, and Hiko was not a patient person if Kenshin knew him. The hollow thumping sound of wood clanking against wood had an erratic, monotonous rhythm that fell in sync with his footsteps on the path as he walked.

When he reached the waterfall he dipped the buckets gently in and drew them out full, stopping for a moment to dip his face into the water. He stayed there for a long time, feeling the coolness against his skin, only jerking his head out when he realised his lungs were on fire. That day he stayed there for a long time to watch the water come crashing down into the pool below, and the frothy foam whipped up by the rushing torrents seemed even more beautiful framed by the encroaching shadows of the forest.

When he returned it was evening, and darkness had almost settled over the land. The last light came from the crimson globe glowing at the end of the horizon, illuminating his path as he ran with hurried footsteps back. The sky was dark and the violet tinges were receding into the sun, leaving only blackness in its trailing wake.

He reached the hut out of breath and panting, the buckets swinging wildly by his side. Hiko stood, a mere silhouette in the doorway, an unearthly light behind him in a soft halo. Grasping the buckets he ran up, an apology at his lips, expecting a stern reprimand, but nothing came.

Hiko turned, and waited that extra pause that Kenshin knew to mean to follow. Gathering up the buckets he realised with a jolt that they were empty—he had spilled their contents running up the uneven path.

Hiko said nothing, and that night all they had were dried rations.

But what he could not forget was the look in Hiko's eyes as he left, the way they seemed to sparkle and hint and be pleased, the way they were dark and unreadable, just like the rest of him. He noticed too, that way the empty sake jug stood at the corner of the room, where it had been full when he left.

From then on he always drew water in the evenings, when the breeze was cool and the water even colder, and the rhythm of his bucket grew to be steady as his strength improved. It was a time for him alone, away from the close confines of the hut and away from the crampness that seemed to be always there from another presence.

And when he came back the light would always be extinguished, with Hiko in the doorway waiting for him. As the days passed the sake jug was left increasingly untouched on these evening trips, and Kenshin was glad, for the brightness in Hiko's eyes meant not drunkenness, but an intense suppression of some hidden emotion.

He had always wondered what it meant.

The sun is setting now, and dusk was creeping up amongst the shadows. He walks forward and enters the hut, peering into the dim interior and discerning not more than shelves and shelves of clay pots lining the walls. He pauses and waits sensing the other's presence, yet not willing to speak.

When Hiko finally steps out into the doorway Kenshin sees that nothing had changed all these years; the same arrogant smirk, the familiar cape on the broad shoulders, the coal black hair tied back simply.

The sun hangs low in the distant sky, a blooming rose unfurling its amber petals, iridescent despite its waning light. "So you're back," Hiko says.

He nods in an affirmative response.

Hiko puts down the pot he is working with and stands up, brushing his hands against his cloak. Hiko is smirking even wider than before, but says nothing, staying silent, waiting for him to make a move.

Finally Kenshin gathers up the buckets that he knows will be kept in the corner and turns around, offering softly, "I'll get the water."

Again he sees the same emotion, the same flicker in the eye. But this time he turns and waits, and does not just leave like he has always done.

Hiko wonders how a man so perceptive can miss the slightest of things, like the way the amber light catches each strand of his red hair and brings its fire out, or the way the shadows accentuate the beauty of the delicate features. 

So all he does now is smirk a little wider and say yes, before adding, " I'll go with you."

The End  
15/08/2004


End file.
